There isn’t much conversation on the way home. Jem constantly has his phone in his hand, texting. When I look back at him in the mirror he’s sometimes pensive, other times pissed off, and just before he conks out with his head against the window he looks sad.
We stop for gas in Kemptville. Eric sends me inside for snack food while he fills the tank and Jem sleeps on. When I come back to the car I set the food up front and climb into the back with Jem. It’s not good for his neck to be slumped over like that.
Very carefully, I unwrap the seatbelt from across his chest and loosen the band across his hips. He’s still not that heavy, and it only takes a slight pull to get him to lean toward me. I make a pillow on my lap from my folded jacket, and Jem snuggles in without ever really waking.
His phone buzzes on the seat and I pick it up to switch it off. Then I get a devilish little thought: perhaps I should record an annoying ringtone for him, like he did for me.
I have no idea how his phone works. I scroll through the menu, looking for a settings or voice recorder option. His text message inbox has a lot of unread texts in it. It keeps flashing red, begging for attention. I open the inbox to get the alert to stop flashing.
All his most recent messages are from Ava. Judging by the way his face looked an hour ago, this probably isn’t a pleasant conversation. I open the earliest message, just to see.
Relax, we hardly even did anything.
I get the feeling she’s talking about me, and the next message confirms it: Just a little making out. She wasn’t even that into it.
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually wanted to be physically close to someone in that capacity. I didn’t want Ava. I just wanted…something. Beyond a decent joint, that is.
Don’t give me that shit, you said you were done with her.
I still can’t believe he’s not.
Last time we talked you were planning to stop being friends with her.
I think back to Ava’s phone message. She sounded like she thought Jem and I were no longer on speaking terms, and that she was extending the olive branch to me in spite of that. I wonder if it says something about Jem’s relationship with Ava that he tells her about his anger but not his happiness.
Her next message is a little mean: Well did you really think you’d get anywhere? I stop reading and shut off his phone. What does Ava know?
Eric drops me off at home and I very carefully slide my legs from under Jem’s head, trying not to wake him. He sleeps like a bear in January. I thank Eric for the ride and he tells me to come around again soon.
“Mom misses you.”
I promise to come tomorrow, maybe after I’m done pretending for the people at Group. As they pull away I take out my phone and send a text to Jem. He’ll get it when he wakes up.
I’m sorry I didn’t say no to her.
Frank is out when I get home. He left a note on the counter about going to Port Elmsley to help Doug fix a wiring problem. The note doesn’t say when he’ll be home, but that doesn’t surprise me. Home improvement projects have a way of getting out of hand, and even if they do finish today, Frank will probably stay for a beer and an hour or two of Sports Center. At least, that’s how Frank will explain it when he gets home.
I unpack last night’s clothes and take advantage of having the house to myself. I send Mom an email with the week’s news, playing up the part about how therapy was so incredibly life changing and I can’t wait to go back and work through some of these issues. Let her have a little hope.
Frank doesn’t come home for lunch, and I don’t know if he’ll be here for dinner, either. But I feel like cooking, so I start preparing zucchini fritters. I’m shredding the zucchini when my phone vibrates.
I walked in when Ava asked you if you liked me.
So Jem saw her wrapped around me. He heard her say that he’s not worth having a relationship with. No one needs to hear that. It hurts like hell to be told that, no matter how many times it’s said.
I didn’t answer her because it’s none of her business. I do like you.
Thanks.
Maybe he was better off not answering that message, if that’s what he’s going to say. He’d have thrown an insecure shit-fit last night if I’d said ‘thanks’ to his admission.
Jem texts me: I’m trying, okay? I want to make peace with what you did.
You’re an idiot.
He doesn’t have to forgive me in order to be civil to me. As far as I’m concerned, even trying to make peace with my past is a waste of effort.
Optimists usually are. That’s why I’m a pessimist.
I almost smile. Never change, I tell him. That dork sends me a smiley face in reply. He’s got a sentimental streak and it’s disturbingly adorable. I set my phone aside and heat the oil for the fritters. I almost have the entire batch fried and ready before my phone moves again.
Can we ‘see each other’ again?
I stare at the screen for so long I forget the pan on the stove and two of the fritters burn.
“Shit!” I throw the fritters in the sink and take the pan off heat. The fritters are so burnt they’re unsalvageable. I scoop them into the garbage can and turn back to Jem’s message.
How do I answer it?
We need to talk about this.
Okay.
Can I come by tonight?
Not tonight. I don’t feel well. Maybe tomorrow, okay?
Do you need anything? As long as I’m cooking, I could make something for Jem and take it over to his house later.
Rest. Tomorrow, okay?
Maybe I should be grateful for the delay, because I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say to him.
Sunday
I love Mrs. Elwood. She calls early in the morning and gets me out of group therapy by asking me to cover a shift. Frank isn’t happy about me missing a session, but I point out that I need the money for college (yeah right) and he grudgingly agrees to let me skip a week of therapy. I think he just doesn’t want to sit through mass again. I text Jem to let him know about the change of plans, but he doesn’t reply. He probably just read the message and rolled back over to sleep.
I have the opening shift at the B&B with Chris. The house is quiet for the first hour while we wait for guests to come down to breakfast, so I busy myself with sweeping the floor. Chris gets the task of setting up the dining room and back patio for the meal.
I feel bad about the way I talked to him last week, when it was just the two of us working. I took my own problems out on him and aside from a tendency to flirt, he’s a pretty good friend.
“Hey, Chris.”
He looks up from the sideboard buffet. “Yeah?”
“You want to do something sometime?”
Chris smiles. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we could get a group together to go to the movies?”
“What do you want to see? I’d love to go with you.” I don’t miss the fact that his wording leaves out any suggestion that this will be a group outing. I suggest a slapstick comedy and tell him I’ll invite Brian and Hannah, and he can invite who he wants.
Chris shrugs. “We could just go the four of us. That’s almost a full car. Double dates are fun, but any more than that is a crowd.”
I should have known he would assume. “Oh, this isn’t a date,” I tell him as politely as I can. “Come on, Paige is my friend. What would she think of me if I asked you out so soon after you two broke up, huh?” Thank God they break up every other week.
Chris agrees, but I can see he isn’t thrilled. He’s just telling me what I want to hear. I can’t hold that against him. I know what it feels like to spin lies because the truth isn’t fit to swallow.
I leave the B&B at five, ready to head home for dinner. I wonder what Jem is doing—a persistent thought that has an obnoxious tendency to intrude on my brain—and remember our promise to meet and…talk.
I sit in my car and call him, wondering what I’m going to say when we sit down
to discuss where we stand.
Jem answers the phone sounding completely exhausted. “Hey Willa.”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. What’s up?”
“I just got off.”
“You what?”
“Easy, pervert. I just got off work. Can I come over so we can talk about…yeah?”
“Um, now isn’t a good time,” he says awkwardly. “Can we postpone again?”
“You’re not stalling, are you?” I tease him. He chuckles and assures me he isn’t.
“I’m just not feeling well enough for company.” Jem apologizes and promises that tomorrow night we’ll set time aside to sit down and talk about…stuff.
“Tomorrow, then.” I intend to hang up, but then he asks me if I’ve heard Bad Religion’s new album. “Don’t tell me you have it?” That bastard. We talk about it for an hour, dissecting every song—he plays them one by one into his cell mic. Jem’s favorite track is “The Devil in Stitches.” I like “Turn Your Back On Me.”
“You’re going to make me a copy, right?”
“Consider it done,” he agrees.
“I knew I kept you around for a reason.”
He laughs and I look at the clock. Shit. It’s almost six. I’ve been laying across the front seat for too long, chatting the evening away. I say goodbye to Jem and he tells me that I don’t have to come with him to dialysis this week, since we didn’t go to my therapy together.
“Pull your head out of your ass,” I tell him. “I’m coming with you.”
I call Frank as I drive home to ask if I should pick up takeout on the way. He’s already eaten leftovers, and apparently there aren’t any zucchini fritters left. That was quick.
I tell him not to expect me home till late and take the road to Port Elmsley.
*
Mr. Thorpe is out when I arrive. It’s just Luke and his sister Briana, who is holed up in her room, blasting metal.
“She’s been in a pissy mood lately,” Luke says, and apologizes for the way the walls shake. “Are you hungry?”
Luke makes spaghetti. He boils the whole package of noodles, which could regularly serve a family of four. Luke eats about three helpings alone. His idea of an appropriate portion for me is enough pasta to make me feel stuffed and dozy.
“Leave the dishes,” he says. “We’ll do them later.” We kick back on the couch and try to decide between Asian-language cartoons on channel three and competitive pole vaulting on channel nine. Luke says we might be able to pick up an English cartoon network if we adjust the rabbit ears, but neither of us wants to get up to do it. We’re full and sluggish, so we make do with foreign cartoons. It doesn’t even matter that Briana’s music drowns out most of the sound.
Luke starts making up lines for the characters, talking over the noise and being silly about it. He makes me giggle and we start to recreate the whole plotline of the episode: the girl with pink hair is a government agent, spying on the guy with white hair who is actually a rogue alien who just likes to probe people and has lost all interest in his species’ mission to conquer earth. The little girl with black hair is his accomplice and is actually a robot controlled by a tiny fellow alien, M.I.B.-style.
“What about the guy with the glasses?”
“Oh, he’ll be dead by the first commercial break.”
When the cartoon ends we give championship pole-vaulting a try. Without humor to stimulate me and with a full belly to make me sleepy, I quickly start to doze. The last thing I remember is the relentless thundering of Briana’s music in the background of my consciousness, and when I wake up I’m no longer on the couch. I’m in Luke’s bed, tucked in with the quilt up to my chest. Damn. It’s been years since someone carried me to bed. I stretch my legs with a sigh and then something touches the back of my head. Luke pets my hair and asks if I’m awake.
“No. Go away.”
He chuckles like I’m joking and lies down next to me. Next thing I know I’m being spooned and his hair is soft against my cheek when he kisses my temple. God damn it, I thought I explained that this shit is off limits.
“Luke.”
“Mmmh?” He runs his hand down the curve of my ribs and hip. His lips are at my shoulder and he’s close enough to my back that I can feel his misplaced excitement. I bet he was waiting for me to wake up. Pervert.
“We talked about this.”
“Give me a chance.” He rolls me with a hand on my shoulder and before I can tell him to fuck off straight to hell he’s got his mouth on mine, pressing our lips together in what I think is an attempt to be passionate. It’s not, it’s just pathetic. Luke lays his weight in top of me, pressing his cock up against my thigh. I really have to stop fooling around with virgins; they just don’t get it. Absolutely no subtlety.
I reach down and grab him, hard. The first time he tried this bullshit, I didn’t say anything. But since then I’ve told him no more. If he’s going to seriously try this with me, I’m going to hurt him and I won’t feel bad about it.
Turns out Luke likes a rough hand. He wraps his fingers around mine and makes me grip him even harder. Fucking hell. I twist a little and he snatches my hand away with a soft exclamation.
Luke pins that hand near my head and begins to leave big wet kisses down my neck. It’s like something out of a bad movie. He rolls his hips against my front, humping me through our clothes, and moans into my neck like a fat man with a hot pie. His other hand slips between my legs, rubbing me through my jeans. Jesus Christ, he’s going to try that again, is he?
“Stop that.”
“Is this better?” He moves his hand in circles instead. I can’t wait until this country declares open season on idiots.
“What do you think?”
Luke gets a hand under me and squeezes my ass. I try to kick him, but I can’t reach much with my hips pinned down. He thinks I’m leaning into him and starts to kiss me with more ‘passion.’ He gets a hand up my shirt and I swear, if he starts fumbling with my bra I’m going to lose my shit completely.
Luke lifts himself up on his elbows and looks down at me with a weird expression. “I don’t have a condom.”
I put my hand on his shoulders and shove, hard enough that he falls off the edge of the bed with a crash.
“Who the fuck said you would need one?” I tug my shirt back into place and get out of bed. “I told you no more of this shit,” I yell at him as I storm out into the hall. I need to get out of here. I shove my feet into shoes and grab my purse off the counter. Briana’s music comes to an abrupt stop.
“Willa, wait!”
“Fuck off, Luke.”
“Why do you keep turning me down? I’ve treated you a lot nicer than your other ‘boyfriends,’” he demands rudely. What does he know about me and my sex life? At least the others asked before they touched me.
“My boyfriends are none of your business, jackass. I keep turning you down because I don’t want you.” I feel like throwing something, but I suppress the urge and head for the door.
“I know why your parents sent you here.”
I stop with one foot out the door. “What?”
“I know about your sister. And the shit you did after. No wonder your parents shipped you off to live with your brother. I bet they were sick of the drama.”
I let the screen door close. “You don’t talk about my sister.”
“I overheard our brothers talking. Frank told Doug what you did to Tessa.”
“You know fuck-all, you little shit.”
“Do your parents not want you to date because of the shit people you got involved with back home? I think they’d be over the fucking moon if you dated someone normal—someone they knows isn’t insane.”
“Are you trying to talk me into dating you?” I can’t believe his sheer idiocy. “I’m seeing someone, you arrogant prick.”
Luke gives me a skeptical look. “Oh yeah? Who?”
It’s more of a lie than truth, but I can’t let him think he has an opening. “Jem H
arper.”
Luke stares at me for a few seconds, and then bursts out laughing like I’m a joke. “Jem Harper? The guy with cancer? Whoa, shit, you are nuts.”
“Shut your fucking mouth, Luke.”
“And what happens when he croaks? Are you going to completely lose your shit again and hurt Frank?”
I really fucking hate Luke Thorpe right now. To insult Jem is one thing—Jem never did anything to him—but to suggest that I’d hurt my family on purpose is crossing a line.
“Jem’s not dying,” I answer through my teeth. “He’s in remission. And you could go out tonight and get hit by a car—and the way you’re going, it’ll probably be my car.” Luke sneers at the threat. “You say shit about me and Frank again, you’re going to regret it.”
I give him the finger and turn to go.
“Are you gonna kill Harper too?” Luke calls after me. I don’t want to stop, but God fucking damn him for saying that to me. I turn and Luke’s got this bitter sneer in place. “Forget it. You’re not worth it. I know what you did to her.”
I drop my purse on the porch and reenter the house. Luke folds his arms as I step up to him, looking down on me with disgust and arrogance. That little shit.
I take a swing at his jaw. My whole weight is behind it, and the arc is long enough that he can see it coming—and he doesn’t even move. My first two knuckles connect with his jaw and his neck twists to the side. What kind of idiot doesn’t block or duck?
He expects it when I wind up for the second punch, and he lunges at me. Luke shoves me into the banister. He’s got his hands around my elbows, pinning my body to the edge of the wood. I’m not above sacking him. My only education is in how to fight dirty. Luke’s not a fighter, and he leaves his legs wide open for my knee to come up and bruise his balls. He might have the advantage of height and weight, but I’ve got experience and I know how to capitalize on his pain. Luke lurches and gags as I lower my knee. His grip loosens enough that I can get my arms free, and I shove him back as hard as I can. My leg wraps around the back of his calf, tripping him.
Luke hits the floor like a sack of potatoes. The adrenaline has deafened me and all I can see is his smug face twisted up in pain. I take advantage of his prone position by sitting on his chest with my knees pinning his elbows down. I knew I loved his stupid haircut for a reason—it gives me something to grab as I pull his face in toward every punch. He gets two across the cheekbone and one across the jaw, hard enough to bust his lip open. My hand is going to hurt like hell when this is over, but right now I can’t even feel it. I wind up my other arm to strike the opposite side of his face, but Luke gathers himself enough to flex his arms and throw me off.
Wake Page 52
